Cross the Ocean

by Holly Bush

  “I don’t know what to make of things, Miss Finch.”

  Gert settled back on the cold stone. “What do you mean, Will?”

  “Father had mistresses, all of my friend’s fathers have mistresses. But now I wonder,” he paused. “Any of those women could have been Melinda. I hate to think about that. But they may not have been from good families, I suppose. Maybe don’t know any better or like what they do.” Will was silent sorting out his thoughts. “And then there’s you, Miss Finch. You do come from a fine family. Mr. Billings and all the hands are honorable men.”

  Gert sighed. “Ah, Will. I don’t know how to explain all of this to you. Many of those women, mistresses, have no other way to support themselves. Some I imagine want to do it, although I find it hard to understand. But yet there are circumstances beyond the control of women that drive them to do things they may not want. I pray Melinda would never face those decisions. And although I may be drawing a fine line, I would never, even in my current predicament, call myself a mistress.”

  “It’s Father’s fault. I know that,” Will said.

  Gert stared up at the stars. “I cannot find it in myself to find fault with what happened. I may have been weak but not guilty.”

  “What do you mean weak, Miss Finch? You are a very strong person. You stood up to Father on many occasions. And all the men here think you are generous and kind,” Will said. “Those are not weaknesses, are they?”

  “I’ve been stewing over all of this since I came home, Will. And the only explanation I can give is that there is a pull beyond what I understand between your father and me. Something past my ability to sort out and name. But for all that, I won’t deny its existence. Unfortunately, he has his own obligations, and I, for the most part can’t bear to be in the same room with him.”

  “What does Father say?” Will asked.

  “He asked me to marry him, Will. Your father was honorable to the end. But he doesn’t love me, and I could not bear ending up like well, like…” Gert trailed away.

  “Like my mother,” he finished.

  Gert nodded in the darkness. “Nor could I give up my home here.”

  “And Father would never leave England.”

  “So, all in all, I will raise a child, maybe even marry Luke Matson.”

  “I heard the men talking. He wants to marry you, I think,” Will said.

  “I’ve made no decision just yet.”

  Will rose to leave and turned to Gert. “I’ll escort you to the house, Miss Finch.”

  Gert smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  Although she would miss Will desperately, one part of her could hardly wait till he left. He reminded her so much of his father. His voice, although cracking on occasion, was settling in to a baritone so like Blake. His manners were fine, and he was well-liked by the men. She knew the hands had taken Will to the Golden Slipper. She heard their whispers and knew they were in no need of supplies as Slim had said. So Will had, of course, seen the dancing girls and a fight. Sipped a sarsaparilla while Clem lost a week wages at a poker table. Gert purposefully rang the bell at daybreak through the window of the bunkhouse the next morning. She remained deaf to their moans.

  Gert received a letter from Esmerelda Bunchley, one of her traveling companions for the cause. The woman inquired about Gert’s trip and wondered when and where she would rejoin her sisters. They needed her voice. Needed her savvy. The cause would benefit greatly by Gert’s quick return.

  Gert blew a wry breath, as she sat in the parlor that morning and read the letter. They would not need her ballooning stomach to teach young woman independence. Gert calculated she was more than three months gone, and her dresses didn’t fit any longer. Her feet swelled and ached in the humid summer air. She alternately cried and screamed and knew she was driving Uncle Fred and the rest near crazy. But then Clem and Clyde built a cradle, and Cookie’s sister sent a crate of infant’s clothes. And Will, God bless him, stayed silent but insisted she hold his arm on the walk from the porch to the corral.

  Gert railed against God at her troubles for one brief shining moment of joy. Then fell to her knees and thanked the same God for the wisps of movement in her belly. She sat back, pen in hand from writing Esmerelda, to let her mind conjure up the face of Blake Sanders. Her son or daughter would be the child of a titled family and the most rigid, unbending man in that kingdom. Would he be broad-shouldered like Will or a lovely girl like Melinda? They would be neither. This child would grow up on a ranch in the States and learn to love this raw land. She would not imagine and plan a life as Blake had done, but allow this child the freedom to choose. Gert would stand at the dock with this nameless faceless child when he or she was eighteen. She would pack him off on a ship to England to find his or her other family. And Gert would cry and be alone till she died.

  But Gert refused to give in to melancholy. She picked up her pen and resolutely began to tell Esmerelda she would no longer be able to travel. Physically, she would be unable to do it, but she also found her heart was not in it. Her own problems and fears overshadowed any other concerns she might feel. Raising this child alone would be enough. Gert still considered Luke Matson’s offer. She would need do no more than tell Uncle Fred, and Luke would take her hand. But her heart was not ready. One thing at time, Gert, said to herself. Have this child, start contributing to the ranch and maybe, just maybe, she would be ready.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Blake followed his map as they left Philadelphia but soon found himself wandering through hills to see the view from the other side. Adjusting to a western saddle was more difficult than Blake had imagined. After two nights spent under a tree, Blake knew they’d made the trip unprepared. His box of matches from the hotel had run out without ever having a proper fire, although Benson had managed to set a small dead tree aflame. The valet beat it out with Blake’s new coat. Blake’s shirt was dirty, and he had only one more in that unique leather contraption that sat across the rump of his horse. His face was burnt from the sun and itched as much as it hurt. What he would have done for a good English fog. Their dinner that night had consisted of chocolate bars Benson had purchased. Their canteen water had run dry when Benson tried to wash Blake’s clothes. He had stood bare-chested and starved while Benson had scrubbed his white lawn shirt with pilfered hotel soap and the last of their water.

  Benson’s purchases seemed more suited. His face was still white as the cliffs of Dover under his hat and his unsightly, yellow gloves kept his hands unmarked. The blisters on Blake’s hands were breaking and filled with dirt. The wool pants Blake had admired so when he first wore them were hot, itchy and giving him a rash of unheralded proportions. He was without question more physically miserable than he’d ever been in his life. But each ache from his rump or rub on the tender skin of his hands and bottom was reduced to a nuisance as he viewed a vista from the top of a mountain. Or a vast valley blooming with wildflowers as deer scampered by. The sky’s brilliant blue in the morning or deep reds and oranges at twilight made Blake forget his discomfort. The air was clean and cool in the morning, sultry by mid-day and held no stale stench of smoke or packed bodies. He refused to give into the wish that loomed in his heart at the crest of each new vision this land held. The fervent wish that Gertrude were beside him.

  A farm came into view on the third day and Blake praised God above. They were out of all but tealeaves. A man pushing a plow behind oxen stood straight as they came into view. He tipped back his hat and raised a shotgun level with Blake’s chest.

  Blake raised his hands. “No need for that, sir. My companion and I need to buy supplies. I was wondering how close we are to a town called Somerset, and if you would be so kind as to allow us water.”

  “Where you from?” the farmer asked.

  “London,” Benson replied regally. He turned to Blake. “Somerset, you say, Your Grace. I have family in Somerset.”

  Blake shook his head. “Not the same. But I’ve found many towns on this map with names of E
nglish villages or lords.”

  “Really, Your Grace? Quite the thing.” Benson smiled and sat up straighter. “These folk must be more British than we thought. Notwithstanding their odd manner of dress.”

  “I find it interesting as well, Benson.” Blake replied as he unfolded the map. The sound of a voice clearing brought Blake’s head around. “Terribly sorry, chap. We’ve been lost in our own conversation. Do you have a well of sorts, that we might have a drink?”

  The farmer looked from the one to the other and shook his head. “There’s a creek right beyond them trees where we fetch our water.” He looked up at the two men and unhitched himself from his harness. “Come on. I’ll show you. Nearing time for the noonday meal.”

  Benson slapped his lips, and Blake’s stomach growled. They followed the man walking.

  The farmer stopped them as they began across the field. “If’n you don’t mind, I just plowed this for crops. Walk your horses between the rows.”

  Blake looked around at the freshly turned soil. “Right. Yes, of course. We’ll follow this row and meet you there.” The farmer nodded, shook his head and lifted a booted foot over plowed ground.

  Benson and Blake trotted along at a straight line and turned their mounts to the man disappearing through a line of trees. They emerged to a sparkling creek, running crisp over rocks. Blake heard birds chirping and saw the sun glinting off of a damp moss-covered ledge. It was a spectacular sight. No one had forced this flow of water to one field or another. The water was so clear; Blake could see fish swimming in schools. He lifted his head and saw the headwater creeping between the hills, bumping and flowing to where he stood and beyond. He realized then they had been riding parallel to the creek for most of the morning. Blake bent to scoop water with his hand.

  “Not there, fella. The cows drink there and leave their waste. Up here.” The farmer motioned for them to join him and Blake turned to Benson as the valet lifted his pointy boot from a steaming pile.

  They let the horses drink their fill and walked to the man now scooping water into a wooden bucket. “Go on. Get your drink here. I’m filling a bucket for us to wash in before Nell puts the food on the table.”

  Benson lifted his brows to Blake wondering as he was whether or not they’d receive an invitation to dine. “How many miles do you imagine lies between us and Somerset?” Blake asked.

  “If you two were aiming for Somerset, well, I don’t rightly understand it. Somerset’s in Pennsylvania, if my memory serves me,” the farmer said and stood.

  “Yes, it is in Pennsylvania.” Blake turned and eyed the unkempt farmer. He hated to correct the man as to the location of his own home so settled on introducing himself. “Blake Sanders, sir,” he said and bowed. “This is my valet, my …my,” Blake stuttered as the farmer looked at him curiously. “This is Benson.”

  The farmer raised one brow. “One name. Kind a like an outlaw or gunslinger, huh?”

  Benson bent at the waist. “Geoffrey Edmund Benson. Valet to the Duke of Wexford.”

  The farmer sat down the bucket and raised his hands to his hips. “Where’s this Duke fellow? Hiding in the hills or something?”

  “No, no, my good man. The Duke of Wexford and Blake Sanders are one and the same,” Benson laughed cheerily.

  The farmer eyed Blake. “You a duke, huh?”

  “Yes, I am,” Blake said and smiled.

  The man pulled a worn felt hat from his head and scratched behind his ear. “S’posin’ you can read, then?”

  Benson smiled thinly as he responded for Blake. “Generally graduates of Cambridge and peers of the realm can, indeed, read.”

  The man stuck out his hand. “I’m Tom Biddle. My Nell is fixing stew and biscuits for dinner. Don’t s’pose you’d want to join me?”

  Blake smiled broadly. “As you can see, I have no fixed engagements. Benson and I would love to join you and your wife.”

  As they approached the small cabin, a woman stepped out of the door. She was pregnant, far along, with a small child balanced on her hip. A curl of smoke rose from a chimney and a plot of ground held a variety of plants, not a weed marring their straight rows. Clothes hung from a rope, flapping and drying in the breeze.

  “We got company, Nell,” Tom Biddle said as he kissed his wife’s cheek. “I told you, I’d help with the wash. Getting to be too much for you.”

  The woman nodded shyly to Blake and he followed the pair into the dim, cool dampness of the cabin. The aroma of food nearly fell him where he stood. Blake and Benson followed Tom as he motioned back outside. The farmer dumped the water he carried from the creek into a metal bowl. He wet his hands and face and reached to a ledge for soap. A thin rag hung on a nail and Tom wiped himself dry.

  “Go on ahead, fellas. Clean up. I’ll meet ya inside at the table.”

  Benson insisted Blake wash first and then stared grimly at the cloth he was to use to dry with. “Your scullery maids have finer rags than this, sir,” Benson said and dabbed his face lightly.

  “I imagine they do, Benson. But I’ll eat that damned rag if I don’t soon get inside to Mrs. Biddle’s table.”

  Once all were seated, Tom and Nell Biddle dropped their head in prayer. Blake wanted to scream “Amen.” The wife ladled large portions of stew into chipped bowls and uncovered a platter heaped with steaming biscuits. A crock of butter and a jar of jam were the only other things on the table. No concoction his chef had ever graced the table with smelled as wonderful as the meal in front of him. Blake waited until his host began to eat and then concentrated intently on cleaning his bowl to reveal a pattern of roses in the crockery. One of Mrs. Biddle’s biscuits sopped the gravy from the bottom, and Blake licked his fingers clean, not knowing what to do without a starched napkin.

  “My dear, that meal was delicious. I hope we didn’t inconvenience you with our arrival,” Blake said.

  “I’m glad you liked it. We don’t get many visitors. Tom and I are right happy for the company,” Nell Biddle said. She shoveled mashed potato from the stew into the infant’s open mouth.

  “I’d like to compensate you, regardless.” Blake reached through the slit of his money belt and pulled out a bill. “Will this do?”

  Tom Biddle scowled. “Them that I ask to eat at my table don’t pay.”

  “But I insist, my good man. Certainly this money could be used to buy your wife some trinket or seed for your farm. I am amply able to share. As you have so kindly done,” Blake said.

  “Got me some of the finest farmland in Maryland. We do just fine here,” Biddle said with a hitch to his shoulders.

  Benson squinted. “Maryland, you say. Is that a town close by?”

  “No. The state of Maryland. Closest town is Cumberland. Tried to tell you boys, Somerset was in Pennsylvania,” Tom Biddle said and leaned back to rub his stomach.

  Blake pulled the map from his pocket and spread it out on the table. His head shook as his finger found Cumberland. “I believe I’ve taken us quite out of our way, Benson. Terribly sorry.”

  “No apology necessary, Your Grace. You are still becoming adjusted to your new role. We will have small mishaps, I’m sure,” Benson said smiling. “And another English name. After the Duke of Cumberland would be my guess.”

  Blake stared at his map and tried to decide where exactly they were in relationship to the city of Cumberland. Tom Biddle stood and pulled a stone from the wall. He lifted a worn leather case from within.

  “Here’s the map of my land from the surveyor,” he said and spread out a large paper.

  Blake poured over the two maps when he realized Tom Biddle stood expectantly to his side. The farmer held papers in his hand.

  “I was wondering, since you can read and all, if you’d take a look at these?”

  Blake nodded and took the papers. He studied them, wishing he had his quizzing glasses from his library. “This looks like a proposal to buy part of your property,” Blake said.

  “Water rights,” Tom Biddle said. “My ciphering isn’t
too good, and I wanted to make sure before I make my mark that I know what it all says.”

  Blake studied the papers and the maps laid out before him. “I believe this is a bill of sale for the creek and the property on both sides.”

  Tom Biddle’s face went white. His wife came to his side. “Thank God I didn’t sign this yet,” he said.

  “Glad to help, Mr. Biddle,” Blake said. “I’d take this to a barrister. Let him make sure you get paid fairly each year for these water rights.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sanders. I can’t see how my dinner measures up to what you’ve done for us, but you’re welcome to stay till supper. Hardly seems payment enough though,” Nell Biddle said.

  Blake smiled. “Thank you, but I wish to arrive in Cumberland by nightfall. We need to purchase supplies.”

  Nell Biddle packed a bag with beef jerky and biscuits while her husband brushed their horses. Benson and Blake mounted and tipped their hats.

  “Sanders,” Biddle called. “I’d see about trading for different horses in Cumberland. If’n your journey’s as long as you say, these aren’t suited.”

  “Really,” Blake said and patted the neck of his horse. “How so?”

  “They’re bred for speed. You need something for the long haul just in case ya get off course again.”

  Blake nodded and set out at a steady trot. The most amazing thing had just happened to the eighth Duke of Wexford. He had been paid for services rendered. Granted, not gold or notes, but he had received payment all the same. Beef stew and biscuits. Blake could not stop himself from preening. It was a heady feeling, indeed, to provide what someone else needed and be paid for those skills.

  Cumberland, Maryland, proved to be interesting. Not as sophisticated or glib or near as large as New York or Philadelphia. Fewer men in business suits, more in farm clothes and many with outfits similar to Benson. Most of the latter, less garish, Blake reflected as he leaned against the brass rail of a tavern called Madam Tilly’s. Men were gathered around tables, playing cards; others stood and conversed with the man next to them. Benson was off, scouting stables. Blake was convinced Tom Biddle was right. He had purchased their horses with an eye for horseflesh only considerate of the landscape of the next hunt. These rocky hills and rolling acres needed stamina from both horse and rider.